I’ve neglected the blog again, haven’t I? I’ve too much on! I’ve too many demands ‘ponst my time and I’ve nowt to say, it seems. 

I can’t think of a thing to report so I prostrate myself before you with the following metaphorical sacrificial lamb of a blog:

  1. I’ve finally started Mad Men on Amazon Prime. Why haven’t I watched it before now? It’s brilliant! The fashions! The naps at work in the afternoon! The cars! The constant smoking and drinking in the office/in front of the kids/while pregnant/in bed/everybloodywhere! It’s fantastic. Of course having a bit of an obsessive personality (which I’ve self diagnosed as a disorder hitherto undiagnosed and marvel at my own ability to have reached these dizzy heights of success in my life considering the obstacles presented by my imaginary condition) I’m fancying myself as a bit of a Joan Holloway with big bouncy boobs and fabulous hair as I swagger seductively through the office swinging my pneumatic hips and smoking a cigarette before downing my mid afternoon vodka gimlet and cuddling down for a nap in my imaginary office. I doubt I’d swagger like Joan though; I’d probably get asked if that horrible yeast infection had reared its ugly head again and is making me walk funny. 
  2. The seventh circle of hell is the tsh-tsh-tsh of fellow train passengers’ tinny earphones – it assaults my ears and makes me stabby. I fantasised about reaching across the table and yanking them right out of her lugs or poking her with my pen while she dozed then just looking out of the window nonchalantly as she opened her eyes. 
  3. Procrastination City Arizona:  I’ve a wedding tomorrow (now today – I even procrastinated re the blog post) – both conducting the ceremony and as a guest – which although lovely – has given me another opportunity to leave everybloodything to the last minute. As a result I’m spending Friday evening being crabbit. It’s just as well the Fabulous Mrs Tigerbaps is busy studying in another city thus avoiding my tutting and stomping round the house in the Tesco Butt-Skimming Nightie of Shame with a towel on my head and a face mask (for parched, menopausal skin, natch). 
  4. Before I retire to my boudoir – carefully navigating the obstacle course of the floordrobe to get to my bed – I need to take up the ridiculously long legs of a “vintage inspired” jumpsuit for aforementioned nuptials. I thought I’d cut quite a dash in it but it’s obviously made for oh I don’t know Brienne of Tarth or somebody equally Amazonian rather than a shrinking fifty-something short arse. And now it’s covered in dog hair so that’s great because it’s navy. FML, as the young folk say. I’ve put on weight since I bought the bloody thing too which is superfun. 
  5. It’s now Saturday morning and I really should get up but I hardly slept a wink for the torture that is the erroneously named sleep-in rollers and I’ve a face like a cat’s arse. 

That’s it. That’s all I have for you. Have a lovely Saturday and if anybody fancies cutting my grass not-a-euphemism while I’m out it’ll be right here waiting for you, growing like a bastard to spite me. 

Bloggy McBlogface. 

God I’m so over that whole Boaty McBoatface thing. 

Well well. We meet again. 

This blog is all over the place, time wise. Don’t try to follow it in a linear fashion. Just embrace the chaos. 

I confess I was scared to log in to WordPress after all this time. It’s been so long since I’ve blogged I expected to log in and find the gaff draped in cobwebs or find other bloggers squatting in it and rifling through my virtual drawers. 

I’ve had a day off today (yesterday – it’s now Friday). An annual leave day to be exact. I took the day off ostensibly to study but so far no study has been forthcoming and it’s now 3pm and I’m contemplating a nice nap. No point starting anything now is there? It’ll soon be bedtime for chrissake. I’m in my fifties. 

It’s now 10pm. I did have a short nap, as it happens, and woke up, suitably refreshed,  forty winks later. 

It’s a public ruddy holiday tomorrow (now today – sorry for this wrinkle in spacetime). Not for me, alas. I’m heading University-ward. I’ve had homework to do which I’ve studiously avoided. If I put as much effort into doing it as I do into avoiding it I’d be running the country by now. 

I was supposed to produce a mindmap to depict my learning process. Unfortunately my brain doesn’t do logic or mindmaps. It’s like I’m permanently wearing a tinfoil hat which prevents logic from getting in. I started the mindmap three times, got bored,  eventually produced this, quite literally on the back of an envelope. There’s no logic to it, it just IS. 

Does anybody find mindmaps easy/useful? Or is it a bit like Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs ie you learn it, can draw it, but never actually apply it to anything in real life? 

If anybody asks if you need anything you don’t draw a pyramid, divide it into five levels, label them, point to the level that indicates your point in the hierarchy and go –  “yes I’m only at “safety” and need to get to “esteem” by 10 o’clock so if you could get me some financial security when you’re at Lidl that’d be fab. Oh and get me a kangaroo leg steak and some weird European cheese and all the pastry products from the in-store bakery while you’re at it”

Enough of this nonsense. 

Oh hold the bloody bus! It’s now Friday 5pm and I’ve just come out of Theo’s lecture and he only bloody cited Maslow’s pesky hierarchy of needs and applied it in real life! How silly do I feel.  

Warning: here be a graphic image of my plasticine nose

Preface – I started writing this at 10pm Wednesday, so you might find it harder to follow than that weird film Inception. 


 Here I sit, flicking idly through the ASOS website sale pages, searching in vain for a very specific cardigan (oh how I love a cardigan – giver of warmth, hider of boobs, provider of modesty, zhoozher-up of a plain frock, staple of holiday wardrobes the world o’er eg “oh yes it’s 32 degrees during the day but you’ll need to pop a wee cardi on in the evenings”) and wondering whether it’s too early to go to bed because the nightly bedtime phone chat with Mrs ‘Baps won’t be happening due to her stupid bloody phone playing up and making it sound like she’s phoning from inside a woolly hat while pot-holing in Cornwall, if that were a thing that she would do, which I very much doubt. 

There’s nowt worse than a muffled phone call; except perhaps a paper cut, or using a public toilet without realising there’s no bog roll and not having any tissues in your bag, either fresh or having been used as lipstick dotters because frankly any port will do in a storm. 

So, given that I’ve no frame of reference time-wise, I’m not sure whether or not this is an acceptable time to head bedwards. I don’t suppose it matters much. I’ll still be awake at 4am, flicking idly through ASOS sale for a cardi. 

I’ve had a sudden onset of free-floating anxiety, which I’m hoping is the two puffs of Ventolin I had ten minutes ago after an overzealous wheely bin trundling expedition up the drive,  and not a portent of a bad day tomorrow. (I can be quite witchy about these things. Just ask Mrs B. Any bad news delivered is usually met with “I bloody knew something bad was going to happen – I felt weird yesterday”)* I’m putting that asterisk there to remind me to insert a footnote about superstition. I’ll still forget though. 

A propos of nothing at all, check this gadget out.  

 This miracle of modern technology is a light which attaches to one’s phone for the taking of amazing selfies. I tried it. In its defence it probably needed more material to work with; not my carb bloated, world-weary face with what looks like a nose made of plasticine slapped on where a real nose would go. When did my nose start looking like that?! 

  I’ve never worried about how my nose looked before but now it’s all I can see. A bulbous daud of plasticine. God help me. Bloody selfie light indeed. 

It’s not mine by the way; it’s the latest addition to Hannah Mason Makeup Artist’s toolkit, which I enjoy a rifle through from time to time in revenge for all the stuff she’s pikey’d from me for the past 25 years not counting the great breast milk fandango of 1990. I’m not counting that because I gave it freely. 

It’s now 5am and there’s no sign of Tucker. I’m assuming my snoring (that’ll be due to my plasticine nose) drove him off to his beanbag nest in the living room. He’s started doing a weird thing – he creeps around after me round the house, no matter what I’m doing, as if he’s on a special mission from a weird canine detective agency. I’ll turn round suddenly and he’s just there, staring quietly at me, usually round corners. I might do a special blog reminiscent of “Kim Jong-Il looking at things” which was quite literally Kim Jong-Il looking at things. I could call it “Tucker looking at me, usually round corners”. Here’s a starter for ten, although it’s not from round a corner, it still demonstrates his new creepy habit very well. 


Rollerblading on beaches. 

Hello! I’ve just popped in to say I’ve got loads of blog posts in draft form again, waiting to be polished up and floated off into the sea of Tigerbaps as I salute them bravely on their way. 

Sorry about the weird analogy above – I just kinda ran with it. In my defence I’m “off my tits” on antibiotics, as the young folk say, if one CAN be off one’s tits on antibiotics. If one can’t be off one’s tits on antibiotics I’ve just invented it, because my tits feel very much off of. 

Oh alright since you ask I’m on antibiotics for a paronychia.

You’ll note that I shun the Wikipedia for medical references, preferring instead to consult medical journals where they talk about the ‘quality of life’ expected following minor ailments like a sore thumb. I can expect to lead a full life according to e-medicine above. That’ll make a change then. I hope I don’t start rollerblading along beaches with Tucker, or windsurfing and smiling like they do in the adverts. I don’t have the build for windsurfing. I’d drop like a stone. 

The aforementioned paronychia is fucking agony. It resulted from a week of finger skin biting, which I know is disgusting but is my go-to disgusting habit if I’m feeling stressy, which I currently am for no good reason. The pain from this stupid condition is horrendous and throbbing – and the only relief to be had is by holding the stupid thumb aloft – even in bed – as if hailing an imaginary taxi or channeling The Fonz. 

Going to the doctor with this stupid ailment is embarrassing but necessary, so in I blustered, thumb aloft, shouting “HELLO HOW ARE YOU I’VE GOT A PARONYCHIA AGAIN WHAT AM I LIKE”. Weirdly we stood for the whole consultation, which lasted 90 seconds exactly from blustering in to prescription. I’m wondering if this is a new thing, standing up at the doctor. I’m due my cervical smear soon, so that’ll be fun, blustering in going “HELLO HOW ARE YOU I’M HERE FOR MY SMEAR” as I stand naked from the waist down, legs akimbo. 

So now I have horrible antibiotics which give me ALL the side effects including, apparently, narcolepsy, judging by the rapid onset of sleep last night. I sure feel weird today, and my thumb’s still throbbing.

As soon as my thumb recovers and I’m leading a full life with my rollerblading on beaches with Tucker and doing smiley windsurfing I’ll polish up the myriad draft blog posts and salute them off to the sea of Tigerbaps. 

PS – I’ve started a whole ‘nother blog. Stand by for inaugural post when my thumb stops throbbing. It’s an “instructional” blog…

Half-arsed TV critic. 

I’ve started watching stuff on Amazon Prime at last. Found Transparent Seasons 1 and 2 to be particularly enjoyable and practically perfect in every way and can thoroughly recommend same. 

I proclaimed loudly to Mrs ‘Baps as we lounged in bed binge-watching Season 2 that it was possibly the best tv I’d ever laid eyes on. A bold claim from the woman who half watches telly while plittering with her phone/iPad/dog and hardly gets to the end of a programme without exclaiming “well THIS is pish”

My attention (-span of a gnat) was turned to Mr Robot on Amazon Prime at 2am yesterday when I randomly woke up to what I thought was an earth tremor (damn those bloody tectonic plates!) but was actually just Tucker having a scratch and making the bed shoogle. Yes my dog sleeps on my bed; judge not, lest ye be judged. 

He’s really bugging my chi this week. I nipped home at lunchtime today and found a square of dark chocolate with canine teeth marks lying in the middle of the living room floor amidst a pile of chittered silver paper. He’d obviously been parkouring round the living room flinging himself from chair to table to shabby chic’d sideboard to get at my half a bar of special dark chocolate (fae Lidl, since you ask). 

A quick Google and phone call and subsequent visit to the vet later – I didn’t take him – I’ve got crippling vet phobia and would probably pee on the floor of the vet’s surgery if I took him.  I’m too traumatised following his drama queen antics and bad reputation at the previous vet whom I suspect hated both Tucker and me and wished he could just pop us both off to sleep and deny all knowledge of having seen us. No, the vet visits are undertaken by a third party – usually Mrs ‘Baps if she’s here. But she wasn’t, damn her, so I’d to beg my son-in-law to do the deed. 

Anyway he’s fine now but I did want to boot his furry little arse into next week for causing me momentary lunchtime grief. The dog; not the son-in-law. 

Back to the highly acclaimed Mr Robot on Amazon Prime: I had high hopes for it but I’m afraid I turned it off after twenty minutes. Young, socially awkward, possibly autistic computer wunderkind works in cyber security by day and hacker by night. Yawwwn. Heard it all before. Oh yes he’s clearly good at hammering commands in to a computer but can he crochet a granny square? Make a cheese soufflé? Poach an egg satisfactorily? I very much doubt it. Just because he’s good at computers and shit doesn’t make him a genius. Just different skills for different ummm… folks innit? I rest my case. 

And why do people on tv always work ridiculous hours? I’m not impressed by your presenteeism. Get home. Then you’ll have time to learn how to crochet a granny square. You’ll thank me.

Interestingly (arguably)  I’ve a bag full of crocheted granny squares somewhere. The gaps between my crocheting frenzies are so large I have to watch YouTube tutorials to refresh my memory every time I take the notion again. I can’t hack a massive corporation’s computer systems though, despite my Bachelor of Science status, so quid pro quo, Clarice, as my granny was wont to say. 

Enigmatic with popcorn. 

Celeb Big Brother is some crazyarse piece of work this time round, if you’re watching it. I’m not really watching it but catch the odd wee five minutes while channel surfing. There’s a particularly odious big blonde gobshite who seems to very much enjoy “being honest wiv ya babe” and wearing sunglasses and coats indoors. I’d avoid her like the plague. And the programme. Don’t watch it; it’s vile. 

Today I’m disproportionately pissed off that cinema listings only go up to Thursday. Surely they know what’s coming? Or do they get to Thursday and go “ooft is that the time? I’ve taken my eye off the ball. Quick! What’ll we put on tomorrow? Oh stick that old Chitty Chitty Bang Bang DVD in – it’s only Dumfries Odeon. They’re practically Neanderthal down there. They wouldn’t know a good film if it popped up in their soup. They’re too busy making latch hook rugs and crocheting antimacassars. They’ve no time for the moving pictures”. 

But srsly though – why DO the listings only go up to Thursday? It’s a bloody nonsense – I can’t forward plan. And I’m all about the forward planning. I’m forward planning a regular Sunday night trip to the pictures by myself, in an attempt to vanquish the beast that is the Sunday night sads, following Mrs ‘Baps departure back to the big city. Don’t invite yourself along please; I enjoy my own company at the pictures. It gives me the opportunity to appear mysterious and enigmatic with a bucket of popcorn. 

I went to see Star Wars on Sunday night past, which I enjoyed well enough, but decided that most films including all the Star Wars are just basically Scooby Doo plots, all pesky kids and ‘good will prevail’. 

Spoiler alert: I was surprised to see Luke Skywalker found on what appeared to be Arran of all bloody places. I hope he doesn’t use the public toilet in Blackwaterfoot, scene of the famous ‘Karen in Arran’ vomiting incident of yore. 

I’ve just remembered that in MY day you had to buy the local paper and turn to the pages just after the middle – the so called “entertainment” page – to look for the tiny advert to find out what was showing in the coming week. And there was always a wee film before the main feature – what did they call that again? My memory is bloody awful. I blame the fumes from my mother’s hair lacquer back in the swinging sixties, copiously applied with a scooshy bottle – no aerosols destroying the ozone layer back then (apologies for this weird meander down memory lane but someone said hair lacquer at work yesterday and I lolled at the ensuing memory although I’ve just googled “hair lacquer 1960s” and can’t find a picture of the bottle I’m thinking of. Have I had a false memory again?)

In other news I spent about twelve hours last night flibbertigibbetting about on the internet trying to spend a twenty quid House of Fraser refund that’s been burning a hole in my pocket. I had a range of items in my virtual shopping basket throughout the course of the shopping extravaganza including a new blusher, a lamp, a pinafore frock which would’ve flattened my ample bosom alarmingly so was quickly jettisoned, an extravagant towel, a purse and overpriced tights which I decided would be too short in the crotch and make me stabby. I finally plumped for a Biba scented candle. God only knows why. Because I’m an idiot, possibly? 

Have a great Tuesday. I’ve forward planned a bacon bagel for breakfast and am all excited about the prospect. 

Tuesday roundup. Not spellchecked. Sorry. 

 Tuesday: my lunchtime Post Office queue* induced fury was offset by the euphoria of being able to touch-type lackadaisical in an email without any errors, and the miracle of my metabolism having somehow managed to convince my body to shed a pound over the festive season, despite rollercoaster dieting which lurched between living on dust and water and being so hungry I wanted to pluck fat seagulls out of the sky and eat them raw and eating my way through six packs of Magnums (assorted flavours). 
It’s possibly the first time I’ve ever had occasion to type the word lackadaisical; it was in relation to my apparent gung-ho approach to personal online security which resulted in some fraudulent actitivy on my bank account. Some bloody bastard had ordered something costing £174.45 from Asda, of all bloody places. If you’re going to plunder my bank account, at least do it with a flourish. A lorryload of Jo Malone candles for example, could fairly rack up a hefty bill and make a dent in my measly coffers. Or 1500 Marlboro Lights and 40 Scratchcards. Or a pound of saffron. Or an ounce of the finest caviar and some edible gold leaf. Or 500 Toblerones and 60 Terry’s Chocolate Oranges with which to make that new hybrid Toblerorange thing which is doing the rounds on Facebook. On the Tigerbaps Hierarchy of Needs the Toblerorange takes up about 80% of the triangle. Bingewatching Transparent on Amazon Prime is the other 20%. 


Luckily, thanks to my recent financial coaching, undertaken in an attempt to overcome my financial ermmm how shall I put this…’imprudence’ I spotted the fraudulent activity and phoned the bank pronto.
Apparently this time of year is rife with bank fraud. Ne’er-do-well fraudsters buying large kitchen appliances right, left and centre apparently, on some hapless citizen’s dollar eg me. It pissed me right off and I hadn’t even had my first Nespresso of the day. 
In other news worthy of a mention – I took Tucker out for an evening stroll round the parish about 645pm and some complete shithouse DELIBERATELY drove at me through a puddle as we walked along Stakeford Street, which soaked me from the waist down – and I mean soaked – I squelched back to the house with Tucker looking like a massive rat on a lead, after I’d shouted FUCKING ARSEHOLE at the silver car (registration starting SN) at the top of my lungs like a fishwife. I was going visiting too. I ended up going out for the evening in my slippers. 

I hope karma is a thing. 

It’s not been the best day, but one remains upbeat. 

Today’s song from my past heard and enjoyed – Blow Monkeys, Digging Your Scene.

*Dumfries is ridiculously lacking  in Post Offices. Wasn’t like that in my day. I was a Postal Officer from 1978 to 1989 although I was hungover from 1978 to 1986 so can’t really count that because I probably just turned up in my wash ‘n’ wear perm and hid under the counter nursing a headache, pretending to have dropped my pen and taking hours to find it. I once turned up wearing two different shoes. True story. 

End of year roundup. 

Went aurora hunting. Freezing. No aurora. Stars lovely. Came back. Ate two crackers. Indulged in moderate self loathing. Donned nightie. Fired up Kindle. Got distracted. Fired up Amazon. Got distracted. Fired up Instagram. Got distracted. Fired up Facebook. Got distracted. 

Mulled over some new hypochondria for 2016 eg borderline personality disorder.  Harboured neggy thoughts about Jools Holland and that bloody Hootenanny. Decided am Hogmanay equiv of Scrooge, spreading ill will to all.

May attempt listening to Serial episode 4 podcast but will no doubt fall asleep after first two minutes. It’s very good. Can recommend. 

For non FB friends here’s a picture from daughter’s lovely  

 wedding on Tuesday. 

Nice that I finished on a high, isn’t it? 

Keep the noise down please. 

Ding dong the bells are gonna chiiiiime…

So Hannah and Ross get married TOMORROW!

I can hardly believe it’s here already. It’s a very exciting and happy family occasion and a chance to dress up like a flea hook as my mother used to say – which I’m guessing is a reference to fishing flies but may of course be wrong. She also used to say ‘Look at her, posing like an abdine’ which I always mean to Google now that we have the technology. Whassan abdine?

So in 19 hours or so I’ll leave the house (looking for all the world like Joan Collins in my emerald green pantsuit) with my celebrant’s folder containing the marriage schedule tucked under my batwing arm to make my way to Dumfries Museum to marry my daughter. How modern! 

The weather forecast is proving tricksy though. Fickle at best. Storm Frank can shit off.  I have however purchased ten brollies from Poundland for guests who haven’t come prepared (no expense spared for a daughter of mine -ha!) as we’ll all be conga-ing downhill from the Museum to the Robert Burns Centre for the speeches and lovely grub at Hullabaloo. 

I might cry. I might not. I’ve had the anxiety dreams which precede an important event. I’m sure I’ll be fine as long as I don’t get so nervous I do something inappropriate like shout “COCK!” 

We’re also Periscoping the ceremony for friends who can’t be there (if you’re a friend of the fam reading this and want added to the list of people who can access the broadcast – email me at – but hurry!). 

Tucker won’t be at the wedding – he’s canis non grata and will be away on a sleepover. Haven’t told him yet – he won’t take it well. 

Anyway, wish us all luck! 

The future, foretold. 

My top ten predictions for 2016:

  1. Compulsory organ donations for anyone sharing “Free £50 Tesco vouchers” on Facebook. They don’t need their brains so we’ll harvest them first, although Christ knows what we’ll do with them. 
  2. The beard thing will FINALLY be over. All the dudes with carefully cultivated hipster beards will be forced to finally and reluctantly shave them off and be dumped by their girlfriends when their true faces are revealed and there’ll be rich pickings on Tinder if you’ve the appetite for it. They were probably punching above their weight anyway, tbf. The beard may be replaced by the Hitler ‘tache; but for women only. 
  3. My weight will continue to ricochet back and forth, up and down and into and out of all the dimensions. 
  4. I still won’t clear the garage out. 
  5. Capes will make another unwelcome return. Nobody can rock a cape. 
  6. See also ponchos. 
  7. Leggings will no longer be a thing. I’ll need to go naked from the waist down. 
  8. Ski pants with the stirrups will be back in fashion for a month. I once wore the stirrups over my shoes. 
  9. Man buns will be replaced by the manbraid, possibly bejewelled. Don’t shoot the messenger. 
  10. Town criers will make a welcome return and will announce daily horoscopes from the steps of town halls across the land, dressed as Mr Wimpy. 

Care to add any predictions of your own via the comments?